


of fires and chimes

by lcdysansa



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Angst, Esme's transformation, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26502733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lcdysansa/pseuds/lcdysansa
Summary: First, there’s dust. Like the smallest of snowflakes, dust particles are floating in the air. It’s shocking how clearly she can see them. There’s no real structure to them, as tiny as they are, but nonetheless, she can see them, she can set them apart to the air around them. Then, there’s lavender. / Esme's transformation
Relationships: Carlisle Cullen/Esme Cullen
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	of fires and chimes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [k0skareeves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/k0skareeves/gifts).



> It’s 2020, so who would’ve thought I’d go back to my 2010 self writing Twilight fics? Not me. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little piece.  
> Big thank you @ Gabi for always encouraging me. Hope you specifically like this …
> 
> (posted on ao3 and ff.net)

**of fires and chimes**

She didn’t expect the pain. Like a sharp blade is cutting her skin open, her neck, her wrists, her thighs, moving like a hot fever through her body. There is no point in comparing it to anything she has ever experienced before, not even childbirth. The pressure inside her body is overwhelming and scary.

More fascinating though, the flashes of every colour, red, blue, greys and blacks, the richest and deepest of all greens, but most importantly a shiny gold are running through her mind, never ending, never stopping. Red blood dripping down her legs, blue summer skies promising warm days outside, grey and black fractures of memories blocking out the good again and bringing back the pain and tears and agony. But the greens, the light green of summer leaves, the lush green of the meadow after a rainy morning, it’s what takes her back to her childhood and that one fateful beech, her favourite on her parents’ farm. It’s the gold of his eyes and the light yellow of his hair rushing through her, quickening her senses. It happens so quickly, swiftly transitioning from one colour to the other and making her relive her life anew. Everything is so vibrant, it’s utterly overwhelming, burning her from within.

Esme is confused. She didn’t think the abyss would include the good moments as well. The times in her life when she wasn’t miserable, but rather hopeful and childishly enthusiastic. She can see the doctor so clearly in front of her, touching her broken leg with his ice cold fingers, giving her the shivers, his gentle smile making her sixteen-year-old self momentarily forget how to breathe. Do you still need to breathe when you’re dead?

It’s just fragments of memories, her thoughts, fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, rapidly rushing inside her, but she can’t make out where they could possibly be leading her. She sees the face of her baby boy in front of her. He’s so small and fragile and she reaches out for him, so desperately, so tenderly. Esme is trying to find the missing piece that assigns a name to him, but she’s unsuccessful; it’s causing a sharp pain in her chest and she is forced to cry out loud for her baby now because it’s all coming back, yet her baby is never coming back to her. Is this the underworld?

She deserves it, she realises as she’s drowning in her sorrow, her flesh burning in the fire. There are whispers somewhere, but she can’t hear what they’re saying, her screams are too loud. The blue that symbolised the beautiful days she spent at her childhood home when she was just a young girl is now transforming into the undertow that called her into the freezing water as she mourned the loss of her child. It’s a sin and it’s hypnotising and so incredibly dangerous, she can’t resist, she can’t stay strong when she’s tried so hard before. Where is the Antichrist, she wonders, enfolding her in his arms?

When she was still with her husband, she always thought Charles was a demon working with the devil to make her life miserable, but Esme can see now that the burning she is feeling, that runs through her body from head to toe — she even imagines it in every single strand of hair on her head, it’s almost like a cleansing. She must be in hell. It’s where her actions took her. She has to feel the pain, the anguish, she must endure it all because of the mistakes and decisions she made. Not being able to love Charles like a dutiful wife should, failing as a mother, and choosing the sinful escape and therefore never being able to find the perfect state of bliss in the Garden of Eden. She almost pities herself.

She hears somebody say the name Edward. But Esme is sure her baby was not named Edward. She’s trying so hard to remember. His cheeks were red and chubby, she recalls, his little legs were kicking furiously as he screamed loudly. His eyes were perfectly blue. She remembers holding him tightly to her chest, she remembers his smell, how the fluff of his baby hair felt against her finger tips. She never felt love like that and she would never again, she knew that. It was pure and radiant and unconditional. She could not explain, not even now, how strong and powerful she felt when she was holding him. He was hers, he belonged to _her_. So when the Lord took him, not even after one week of blessing her, she did not understand. Still doesn’t. One time, when she was about eight years old, she had found a tiny kitten in the tall grass behind the house. It was black and white, so small, and it had a terrible cold. Esme nurtured it for five days, dropping everything after coming home from school to check on the small ball of fur, giving it milk and blankets to warm it up. Her mother held her for two hours after it died. She didn’t even have five days with her son.

She wanted to scream at the sky, she wanted to ask _why him_? She wanted to shout, _take me_. She wants to reach out to the sky, again, as the fire burns inside her, too afraid to open her eyes, and she can feel the tears streaming down her face. It’s too hot, it’s too painful, it’s unbearable, it’s what she deserves. Yet, what she feels next, catches her off guard. A soothing cold encompassing her hand to bring her back down, distracting her. It’s quite familiar, this particular coldness wrapping itself around her hand, pressing softly into her skin and her thoughts race back to the doctor. She is insane, she knows, to think he might be by her side. Someone like him would never have to experience the fire or deserve to scorch so ruthlessly, so brutally. She can still remember how he melodically chuckled when she told him she had fallen down the tree behind the house. It’s peculiar, really, her having access to pleasant memories even now. The leaves looked beautiful in the morning sun as she climbed it to sneak a peek into the small bird nest hiding in the branches. Needless to say, it didn’t work out the way she had hoped. But blushing on the lounge in front of the doctor, she had stopped cursing herself internally the moment she had looked into his eyes. Topaz and warmth was all she had known then.

So different to what she is experiencing now. Minutes pass by like hours, hours pass by like days, and days, they never seem to end. An ongoing nightmare getting more intense with time. It’s almost unbearable to think of how this is what she has to endure forever. Esme wants to scratch her skin, she wants to rip her hair out, she cries loudly, she whimpers softly, but the pain does not stop. It’s the sharp contrast to the iciness of the water that astonishes her mind even after what feels like years of burning. She can still feel it in her bones, the languid weightlessness pulling her down, as the heat increases, spreading through her body in an intensity she hadn’t known before. The whispers are back, delicate air stroking her cheeks, just as fierce as the fire. She wants to beg for the pain to stop, but she knows there is nothing she can do, there is nobody here to help her, Esme tells herself, yet deep inside herself, she wonders if she’s wrong. Why is it that she feels soft fingers caressing her lower arms? They’re not cold anymore, but welcoming and caring. Is it Judas trying to trick her? Trying to help her just to break her in half?

There is absolutely nothing that can prepare her for the stillness that follows. Suddenly, it all just stops. Like it never happened. Almost. Her chest feels hollow, void, like something’s missing. There’s nothing touching her any longer, but she does feel a soft fabric underneath her. She remains reluctant, it’s what Judas wants, doesn’t he? For her to open her eyes and scare her into oblivion. But nothing happens. Slowly, she moves her right index finger, circling it over the fabric, examining the softness while at the same time noticing the individual fibres. Bewildered and unlike before, without giving it even a second thought, Esme opens her eyes.

* * *

First, there’s dust. Like the smallest of snowflakes, dust particles are floating in the air. It’s shocking how clearly she can see them. There’s no real structure to them, as tiny as they are, but nonetheless, she can see them, she can set them apart to the air around them. Then, there’s lavender. Soft and soothing curtains surrounding her, reminding her of the most beautiful lilac trees down the river at home. The play of colours is mesmerising, and Esme wonders what it would be like to paint it, just the shade itself. She’d have to use more blue than red for this one and add just a tiny bit of white, but, _oh_ , the dreamscapes she’d paint on the wall with just this colour alone, the skies she’d create. She’s lying in an old-fashioned four-poster bed, she notices then. The dark wood grain looks so interesting to her, her eyes tracing every single line above her. On some spots, the pattern is coarse, on others more delicate. Her mind is buzzing, taking in all the colours and structures she can see and distinguish. This doesn’t look like hell, Esme thinks. And when a creak in the floor, scarcely audible, yet her ears pick up on it, disrupts her observations, she intuitively moves. She’s too fast, she realises as she comes to a stop one foot next to the bed. Too light-footed. In the concerning way. Only about twenty-five seconds have passed since she opened her eyes.

What she sees next startles her and shakes her to the bones. It makes no sense at all. It’s the topaz of her dreams greeting her, glistening in shades of yellow and gold, framed by long lashes and the face of a ghost smiling at her. Esme frowns, backing away slowly. And then it hits her all at once. The pattern of _his_ skin like rough diamonds put together to create one artwork, the leaves rustling in the wind outside, the smell of the damp moss outside, but more distinctly, a mixture of dark pine, warm vanilla, fresh apples, and notes of citrus on the inside, right here filling this room with a luscious aroma. There’s honey somewhere, too.She’s so blinded by the sight of _him_ , she can barely look at his silhouette. The other, he’s got a boyish look, with bronze hair and the same eye colour staring back at her. She’s deeply disturbed by it all combined, including the weird sensations of her own body. She is scared and confused, yet there is no heart in her chest pumping furiously. There is no heat making her uncomfortably warm and sweaty, there is no warmth in her cheeks. Esme can feel herself panic but it’s terribly anticlimactic, forcing her to believe this might all be a horrible dream. Albeit —

“This is no dream, Esme,“ the boy with the bronze hair says, looking at her like he pities her. “And you aren’t dead. Well, technically you are, but you really aren’t.“ Tilting his head, he smiles at her, and Esme can tell he’s trying his best to reassure and calm her down.

“This isn’t helping, Edward,“ _he_ murmurs, his voice like chimes in the windy evening air, and Esme’s eyes rivet on him. His voice sounds melodious and pleasant and like nothing she has ever heard before. It almost makes her want to close her eyes and listen to him talk forever, but Esme is on guard, still keeping her distance. She remembers the name, Edward, from her dreams, so they must have been by her side when she was struggling and hurting, Esme realises, now even more wary. Why didn’t they help?

“What happened to me?“ the question leaves her lips before she could even think about it, her delicate hand reaching for her throat as she becomes aware of the sharp, flame-like pain that has a significant resemblance to whatever it was that ripped through her before. She’s looking at the doctor now, almost begging, _please, please, tell me what happened to me_.

“Some things, dear Esme, are unexplainable and confusing and very frightening, I am aware of that,“ he begins, his voice calm and non-threatening. He’s speaking slowly and deliberate.

“But I jumped!“ Esme should be hysterical now, but just the look of his eyes, his hesitant smile, has the power to relax her somewhat. She remembers ice cold water, hard waves trapping her body, pushing her up and down. The pain in her throat is intensifying and all of a sudden, Esme is afraid of the pain from before returning. She can’t control her face, knowing she is contorting her face, scratching her throat but the relief won’t come.

The boy flinches visibly now, frowning at the doctor. “She is … afraid of the pain from before.“ And it’s Esme’s turn to frown. It’s almost like he knows what she is thinking, what she is seeing in her head —

  
“Esme, do you remember?“ the doctor asks her then, interrupting her ridiculous train of thought. She is staring at him, blankly. She may not have known if her mind was playing tricks on her earlier, but she knows that he still looks exactly the same when it’s been a decade. Her eyesight, better than ever, affirms that there is not one wrinkle in his beautiful face. There is not a single flaw.He hasn’t changed at all. Why can she see so clearly? “You’re him,“ she states simply, and she knows he will understand. Because she never stopped thinking about him. Has he?

He smiles at her and he looks _so_ relieved, for a second she forgets the ache burning in her body, she’s blinded. He doesn’t look like he forgot her either. “The worst part of it is over, in a that sense, at least. Do you believe me?“ He is reaching for her now, holding his hand for her to take, for her to make a step forward and just trust him. And Esme wants to.

“In that sense?“ she asks instead, holding back. The boy, Edward, sighs. “You are different now. You aren’t in hell, Esme,“ he looks at her intently to make sure she understands every single word he says, and she can’t help but flinch at his words. “You _aren’t,_ “ Edward stresses. “This is still the earth you have known since the day you were born. But now you’re seeing it from a different perspective. Different urges drive you now, different desires. And you’ll have to learn to live with that. Like we did.“ He’s getting impatient now, she notices, and she starts feeling guilty for taking all this time to comprehend. Strangely, she believes him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. This doesn’t look like hell, this doesn’t _feel_ like hell. In contrast, it feels like everything she’s ever known, but more intense, more vibrant. It would almost be mundane if it wasn’t for the intensity. Dr Cullen’s hand is still in mid-air, his palm exposed in her direction.

“I did what I had to do to keep you here. As selfish it was of me. Do you believe me?“ that question again. _I don’t know_ , she wants to scream, but a whispered “yes“ leaves her lips, and she knows it’s the truth. She would believe him anything within a heartbeat. Or no heartbeat at all. “I’m not human,“ Esme says then and it’s not a question. It’s one of those things you know because you can feel it inside. There is absolutely nothing human inside her. She wants to cry, but there are no tears in her eyes. “So what am I?“

“You crave blood now. This is your only desire, and it will be for a long time.“ The doctor tilts his head as she steps forward tentatively. She needs comfort, she needs help, and more than that, she needs somebody to rely on. “Edward and I know what you are going through and how hard the next few months will be, but you must always remember that it will be over soon.“

“Why can’t I cry?“

“It’s not …“ she startled the doctor, she can see it in his face. Edward doesn’t look surprised at all, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We can’t cry,“ the boy says cheerfully. He looks like he is enjoying her confusion, and she doesn’t like it. Edward grins even wider now. She doesn’t like it at all. “And we can’t sleep either.“

“I can’t sleep?“ Esme almost shrieks. How is it possible to not sleep? To not dream? To not rest? At any time?

“It’s just not something our bodies need. We never get tired,“ Dr Cullen notes. Esme is standing in front of him now. Taking his hand in between hers, she pulls it toward her face to inspect it, her confusion trumping timidity. It’s brilliant, really, the way the light of the room is reflecting on his skin, shimmering discreetly. She should be appalled by the fact that she apparently needs blood to survive, but right now, it seems so unreal and ridiculous, the fact that she will never get tired horrifies her a good deal more.

Esme looks him in the eyes. “Why?“ She wonders if he knows what she means, what she craves to know.

“When I saw you lying there, I couldn’t stop myself. All I could see was that girl that fell from the tree, with tears in her eyes and a heartbreaking, soft smile. I couldn’t leave you there. Everything in me was striving against just leaving you there. You were almost dead,“ he whispers. “Your heartbeat was weak, nobody but me could hear it.“ She doesn’t blame him, Esme understands. If she had seen him somewhere, she couldn’t have stopped herself either. If she could, she would blush at her shameless thoughts. But there is no blood inside her body. There is nothing tying her to her previous life.

She thinks of her angel son and her abusive husband. She thinks of her dead parents and all the potential she had when she was sixteen, sitting on her parents’ sofa with that broken leg of hers. Her life could have been so beautiful, so full of love and happiness. She wants to cry again.

“But you’re not alone, Esme. Not anymore,“ he says like he knows. And she takes his hand. She believes him.


End file.
